Dead Peasants

by Larry D. Thompson

  Never faced with this kind of decision, Goldenberg excused himself to the hallway and called his boss. “Mary, is Herman around?”

  Alfred explained the situation when Herman got on the phone.

  “Horseshit,” he said when Alfred finished. “Go try the case. By the way, who’s defense counsel?”

  “I know he’s Jack Bryant. Hold on, sir. Let me look at the pleadings. Name’s Jackson Douglas Bryant.”

  There was silence on the phone. Goldenberg asked, “Are you still there, sir?”

  “What the fuck is Bryant doing in Fort Worth, and why’s he defending some old black woman against our bank? Is he carrying a cane?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s him. That changes everything. I don’t want you facing Bryant in your first case. You’ve got authority to meet his demand. Try to save a little off that $25,000.”

  Goldenberg clicked his cell phone off and returned to the jury room. “Look, Jack. I just talked to my boss. I can meet your demand, but I’ve got a personal favor to request.”

  Jack nodded.

  “I’m already looking bad back at the firm. Could you consider just taking $20,000?”

  Jack smiled. “I understand your predicament. Tell you what, I’ll take $22,500. You can tell the client that you negotiated hard.” Jack put his cane over his shoulder and walked to the door. “Let’s go tell the judge we’ve got a deal.”

  Jack turned to leave the courtroom when he spotted Colby, seated on the back row. He motioned her to follow him into the hallway. “What are you doing here?”

  “I just wanted to get an idea of how this pro bono stuff actually worked. Did you really get that woman $22,500?”

  Jack leaned on his cane. “Yep. Sure did and got the company to waive its claim on her credit card.”

  “And how much of that do you take?” Colby asked skeptically.

  Jack looked a little offended. “Maybe you don’t understand the meaning of pro bono. I helped her for free. I get nada, nothing. Didn’t ask for anything and won’t take anything from people like her.”

  Colby’s skepticism turned to admiration. “Well, then,” she said as she took his arm, “If you can direct me to a good shop around here, coffee’s on me.

  While they waited for the elevator, Colby thought, Maybe this guy really is someone special.

  28

  Colby signed in and walked down the hallway to the nursing station where she found a new nurse. “I’m Colby Stripling. Where’s Irene? I thought she usually worked this shift?”

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Stripling. I’m Jackie. Irene no longer works here.”

  “Had to do with patient care, didn’t it? Decubitus ulcers, among other things, right?”

  “I’m not allowed to discuss it.” She pointed to Room 4. “Dr. Winston is in there right now.”

  Colby nodded and walked to the door, knocking quietly before she opened it.

  Dr. Winston had the covers off the patient and was carefully evaluating him. “Ah, Colby, I’m glad you’re here.”

  Colby nodded and walked over to stand beside the doctor.

  “Look here, the ulcer is improving. I’m glad you caught it at Stage II. These bastards can be damn near impossible to cure once they get to III or IV.”

  Colby looked at the buttock. “It’s certainly looking better. But, I’m still pissed off at this facility. I’ve made a lot of sacrifices and paid a lot of money to put him here. I told that attendant the day I discovered it that he’d be better off dead if this is the kind of care he is going to receive. She didn’t seem to give a damn.”

  “Believe me, Colby, I’m extremely sorry about the problem. Once I looked into the situation, I made sure that Irene was terminated immediately. To say the least, she wasn’t happy. Said she wouldn’t be able to find another job,” Dr. Winston added. “I’m afraid I must bear some of the responsibility. I can’t tell you the number of meetings I’ve had with the staff about taking care of patients like this who can’t care for themselves. I’m afraid it’s the caliber of people they hire.”

  “I picked this place because it was supposedly the best in the area,” Colby said as she sat down and buried her head in her hands. “I don’t know what more I can do Keeping him here is costing me $5,000 a month. I’m not sure how much longer I can afford it.”

  “I’m sorry, Colby,” Dr. Winston said. He hesitated and then continued. “Maybe you just ought to let nature take its course. He’s never going to get any better.”

  “You mean let him starve to death like Terri Schiavo? No,” Colby sobbed. “I married him until death do us part. I’m still his wife, and I’m going to be faithful to him and care for him the best I can until God calls.”

  29

  Boss didn’t like it. Here he was at seven o’clock in the morning, parked in Billy Bob’s parking lot at The Stockyards. The lot was littered with trash and empty beer cans. A couple of pickups were parked across the way. Either their drivers were arrested or some friend had convinced them to leave the driving to someone else. Shit, he thought. How the hell did I get myself into this mess? I’ve always been a law abiding citizen, at least until now. He kept his eyes rotating from the front to the side mirrors and the rear mirror, ready to leave if he saw anything even remotely suspicious. He even had a story for the cops, should one circle through the lot. He had just dropped off a friend who was too drunk to drive last night. The friend left just as he had to take a cell phone call. After fifteen minutes Boss was about ready to leave when he saw a horse and rider approaching from the south edge of the parking lot. As the rider got closer he recognized Hawk.

  He waited until Hawk was at the driver’s door before he lowered his window.

  “Morning, Boss. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t really want to make small talk,” Boss groused. “Why’d you pick this place anyway?”

  Hawk grinned as he made a sweeping motion with his arm. “Why, this is my stomping ground, my home territory. I know everyone who works around here. Even the Stockyard cops are my buddies. If they see us here, the cops will just wave at me and be on their way. By the way, your plan seems to be working pretty damn well. I haven’t seen reports of any of our jobs in the Star Telegram. Nobody’s connecting the dots. What do you have for me?”

  “This one ought to be easy. Old man lives north of Denton. Likes to go fishing at a creek about a mile from his house most mornings when the weather’s good. I figure that if he fell and hit his head on a rock, that would do him in.”

  “Look here, Bossman, I don’t tell you how to do your job, and I don’t need any advice from you about how to do mine. Understood?”

  The Boss nodded as he handed Hawk a piece of paper. “Here’s what I know about him. Oh, and your fee is forty grand. Should be easy money.”

  Hawk tipped his hat as Boss drove away.

  30

  The old black man used a cane pole and worms to fish. He had grown up fishing that way. Caught a lot of fish over the years and never saw a reason to try a rod and reel.

  He left his house just before dawn on his fishing days, usually four or five of them a week. He always quietly shut the door so as not to awaken his wife. He put his pole, a bucket full of dirt and worms and a small tackle box containing hooks, line and a few bobbers in the back of a pickup that was so old that it had fenders. She might be old, he told his friends, but she still runs good. All he had to do was change the oil and replace sparks plugs ever so often. He figured that she would last at least as long as he did, maybe longer.

  He and his wife lived on a dirt county road in the same house where they had raised three kids. He had a few acres that he farmed every spring. The beans, potatoes, corn and other vegetables helped stretch the social security check that they lived on. Other than grandkids, fishing and church he had no other hobbies or interests. Well, he did drive into Fort Worth a couple of days a week to have a beer and play dominos with some of his old cronies.

  The old man turned on
to the dirt road and drove five miles. He passed a couple of other pickups and waved at neighbors who were accustomed to seeing him at this time of morning. When he got to an old wooden bridge, he pulled off the road. He took his pole and the small tackle box with his right hand and grabbed the worm bucket with his left. He carefully stepped down an incline and crossed the bar ditch to a path that ran along the creek. His favorite spot was about a hundred yards away. The water there formed a small rapid as it flowed over rocks and then pooled. It was in the pool where he usually caught some very fine bass.

  When he got to the pool, he had to step over the rocks to get to the other side where he sat his tackle box and bucket on a flat rock and unwound the line from around his pole. Setting down his pole, he opened the bucket and fished around in the dirt with his hand until he found a worm that tried to wriggle away as he pulled it from the bucket. Nice, big fat one, he thought. Oughta catch me a big, fat bass. He baited the hook and measured the distance to the bobber. Five feet. Just right. With that he pitched the worm and bobber out into the water. Once he was satisfied that the location was a good one, he sat down on the flat rock in the shade of a live oak and stared at the bobber as he enjoyed the sounds of two mockingbirds talking with one another.

  He was startled by the crack of a branch behind him. He looked around and saw nothing, deciding that it must have been a branch falling from a tree.

  Fifteen minutes later Hawk walked up behind his target, making no sound. He had a big rock, weighing about ten pounds, which he held in both hands and slowly raised. Then he crashed it down onto his victim’s head. The old man dropped his pole and fell to his side, blood oozing from his scalp, ears, nose and mouth. Hawk waited for a minute and then felt for a pulse. Nothing.

  Hawk picked the old man up and tossed him into the water. Then he carefully scooped up all of the dirt and blood from where his head had lain moments before. That went into the water, too. Satisfying himself that it would appear that the old man had slipped on a rock, Hawk backtracked, taking pains to brush his footsteps with a pine bough. As he got to his pickup he thought, Boss actually had a pretty good idea.

  31

  Dwayne Allison had spreadsheets scattered about his desk and a table in his office. Once again he was facing a decision to close more dealerships, hopefully no more than three this time. And he hoped they would be the last. He despised having to put more people out of work, but he had to reduce overhead. After anguishing over the decision all morning, he picked two small town Chrysler stores and one Chevrolet dealership on the east side of Dallas.

  “Mr. Allison,” his secretary called through the intercom, “Mr. Quillen is calling. Can you talk to him?”

  Allison had actually avoided talking to Quillen for several weeks. Now, he figured the son of a bitch was calling about wanting more payments on his loans. He sighed as he leaned back in his chair. “Put him through.”

  “Dwayne, Beau Quillen here. How are those quarter horses of yours doing?”

  “Fine, Beau. Your wife and grandkids doing well?”

  “Glad you asked,” Quillen said. “Just got another one. That makes six. Dwayne, this is not about business. Shady Oaks has a member only best ball tournament this Saturday. I figure that two old farts with high handicaps like us might have a shot. You want to be my partner?”

  Allison considered the options. He was pissed at Quillen. Still, it was best to stay on good terms with your banker. “You’re on. I hope your putter’s hot.”

  The tournament was a shotgun start at nine a.m. Allison caught up with Quillen on the driving range. “Morning, Beau.”

  “Dwayne, good to see you,” Beau said as he extended his hand. “We’re paired with a couple of new flat-bellied members. Take a few swings, but don’t use up all of your good shots on the range.”

  Allison nodded as he went through his stretching routine and then selected a seven iron. After a couple of slices he settled down and started hitting them down the middle about one hundred and sixty five yards. “That’s enough. I see we’re starting on number ten.”

  The men went to their cart and drove to the tenth tee and introduced themselves to their playing partners.

  After the two young guys had powered their drives two hundred and sixty-five yards, Allison stepped to the tee and drove one about two hundred and ten yards right down the middle. Quillen put his ten yards further out. After seven holes the two older men were playing close to their handicaps and were hoping for at least a small trophy. On the par five seventeenth hole Allison and Quillen hit their second shots and then drove down the cart path while the two other men stood in the fairway, sizing up the water on the right and sand traps on the left.

  Out of earshot from the others, Quillen said, “Dwayne, I want to tell you I really appreciate what you’ve done over the last several months to catch up some of that back interest. Makes me breathe a lot easier if I can show the examiners you’re making progress.”

  Allison offered Quillen a cigar and lighted both. They puffed their cigars to make sure they were sufficiently lit. Allison lowered his voice. “Beau, I don’t know what’s going on. All of a sudden a bunch of my former employees have kicked the bucket. I suppose they’re just getting old, but I’m damn sure glad I kept paying those life insurance premiums.”

  Quillen nodded his agreement as he exhaled cigar smoke. “If they’re going to die, let’s just hope the deaths are accidental and not a damn heart attack or stroke. That double indemnity is good for both of us.”

  32

  Jack put on a dark suit and tie. On the way out he told Lisa that he’d be gone most of the day. When he stepped out the back door he saw thunderclouds forming overhead and felt a slight chill in the air. Fitting day for a funeral, he thought. He punched in the code for the Hummer, and the garage door opened. He circled around Rivercrest and soon was headed downtown and out North Main to the icehouse.

  Jack glanced over to his RV to determine that it was secure as he turned into the icehouse parking lot where several of the regulars were milling around, awaiting his arrival. Moe was in the process of taping a sign to the front. CLOSED FOR FUNERAL. Jack greeted his friends, some dressed in suits, others in clean jeans and white shirts. Moe got in the passenger seat and the others piled in the back seats. It was a solemn occasion and little was said on the drive to north Denton County. Jack commented on the thunderstorms as they made their way over to I-35. Silence. Moe mentioned that the Cowboys were probably going to lose again on Sunday. More silence, punctuated only by the GPS voice giving them directions to the Greater Mt. Zion Baptist Church. The men were lost in thought about Willie Davis and his sudden death. He had been in the icehouse playing dominoes only three days before. Now he was gone. The GPS directed them north on I-35 to Denton where they went west on a two lane road. They wound farther back into the hills and were on a gravel road when Moe spotted the church up ahead on the right.

  It was a small, white frame structure in need of paint with a gravel parking lot in front and a small cemetery in back. Jack noticed dirt piled at the edge of the cemetery, almost surely dug to make the final resting place of Willie Davis. There were a few cars and pickups parked in front but no people. Jack glanced at the dashboard clock and realized they were late. He parked the Hummer and checked the clouds as they exited, hoping that the rain would hold off for another hour.

  When they entered the door, the preacher was standing at the pulpit, saying the opening prayer. The men waited with bowed heads until he was finished and then took seats on the back two rows. The small church was about half filled. Other than his group he saw only one other white person. It was a woman, seated on the second row behind the family. Jack studied her for a moment before realizing that it was Colby. What’s she doing here? Did she somehow know Willie, too?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a woman at the piano who started singing a solo, The Lord’s Prayer.

  When she was finished, the preacher returned to the podium. “Thank you, Sister Mary, for t
hat fine solo.” He looked at a black woman who had to be Willie’s wife, seated with family members on the front row. He nodded to her. “Ladies and gentlemen, June. We come here today not to mourn the loss of Willie Davis, but to celebrate his life…”

  He was interrupted by a wail from the front row. June Davis couldn’t hold it back. She and Willie had been married for over fifty years. In her mind, there was nothing to celebrate. It was her loss. Her two daughters joined in the wailing. Her son, a large man in a pressed blue shirt and black slacks, put his arm around his mother and tried to console her. Colby reached over the pew and patted her back. The preacher waited until her wailing became a whimper.

  The preacher talked about what a fine man Willie had been, how he had been a devoted husband and with June had raised three fine children, also members of the church. They gave Willie and June six grandchildren who were seated on the second row beside Colby. June’s crying grew louder as she again realized that her grandchildren would never see Willie again. The preacher tried to speak over her. Finally, he decided to move on. “Now, Willie, Jr. would like to say a few words about his dad.”

  The big man rose and lumbered to the pulpit. His head was down and he spoke staring at the floor. His voice was soft. “He, he was my Dad. He taught me to play baseball. We hunted and fished together. He spanked my butt when I stepped out of line.” The audience was glad to have a moment of levity and laughed politely. “That’s about all I’ve got to say. He was my dad and I’ll miss him.” Then Willie, Jr. lost it, and he burst into tears as he returned to his seat.

  The preacher announced they would all sing Amazing Grace, and he would say a final prayer before going out to the cemetery for the burial. Sister Mary returned to the piano and everyone rose to sing. As they finished, there was lightning followed by a clap of thunder. The preacher hurried through the final prayer and six pall bearers rose as one to carry the casket through the front door and out to the cemetery. Jack stood at the aisle as they passed, followed by the family and the rest of the congregation. When Colby saw him, she whispered, “What are you doing here?”